


Sometimes It Hails Instead

by Puniyo



Series: Let Them Talk [5]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Angst, Family Drama, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, alternative universe, crude language, mention of sexual situations, mention of violence, vanilla and cigarettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 01:14:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16671964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puniyo/pseuds/Puniyo
Summary: ‘Don’t look at me like that.’A déjà vu. He hadn’t noticed he had his gaze fixed on the younger man’s exposed neck, not a trail of sweat this time but a beads string. ‘Like what?’‘Like I don’t recognize you, Ja-vi-er.’A prequel for the main events in Rain told from Javier's POV.





	Sometimes It Hails Instead

**Author's Note:**

> Dear all, after the nerve wracking news of Yuzuru's injury at Rostelecom, my way of coping it was to write drama and hereafter presented to you. I love both Yuzu and Javi in this universe but I do find Javier's POV to be more intriguing and even more complex to develop. There is a lot of family drama here.
> 
> I'm not a business expert much less a law/legal one, so forgive for the over the top situations here. It's all for the plot and for the drama (how many times have I mentioned drama already?)
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of FICTION. In no ways does the content reflect the people mentioned. Live and let live.

Navy blue striped suit, checked. Ironed linen, soft to touch but still a wrinkle on the back. Should not be but checked. Platinum cuff links in the shape of skates, triple checked for each arm. Leather shoes, polished, not an atom of dust on the vamp, double checked. The capital _F_ pin, _Fernández_ Corporations, on the lapel of the jacket, unnecessary but checked.

 _I want to be home but I need to be here instead_ ear to ear grin, overly fake, absolutely checked.

Javier must be the youngest person in the gigantic ballroom as he quickly inspects one side to the other. The live string quartet is completely ignored by all the guests chatting in their own social groups, white hairs with golden canes, black revealing gowns with fiery tight dresses, plates on their hands as they munch on the caviar avocado canapes and Alaskan crab ceviche cocktails. Lipstick stains on pristine lavender perfumed napkins and cigars that run between manicured fingers, this world of opulence and counterfeit luxury suffocates him and yet, he knows how to mingle in it, what words the dames expect to be praised with and how to self-loathe in order to boast the fragile egos of the businessmen ready to stab on unprotected backs.

The lights dim slightly and his father conquers the stage with the rehearsed speech he had heard many times from the Fernández senior’s office, numbers and percentages, sales higher than the Mount Everest and investments that could built an underwater city in the middle of the Pacific, an empire of nothing but cold-hearted profits and disposal of ill-fitting opinions. Javier grabs a glass of pink champagne, gaudy bubbles in even fancier flutes, from a passing waiter and he walks away, searching for his mother who is admiring the bow of the viola of the forgotten ensemble.

‘You should have got me one when I was a kid.’ He hands her the drink. ‘It would have been much more entertaining than the accounting encyclopedias.’

‘Your father hates the sound, you know it.’ She thanks him for the glass and Javier kisses her cheek. Her voice is somehow raspy, coarse, but motherly tender.

‘You love it.’ He runs his fingers through his hazelnut curls not caring if it would ruin his styled parted cut. ‘At least Laura got a harp for Christmas.’

‘He only wants the best for the both of you. He knows how tough the world is and he wishes nothing but success for you.’

‘My dream is not to sell houses.’ He mimics a phone with his pinky and thumb extended and brings his hand to his ear, his voice raising one octave. ‘Hello, this is Happy Wonderland houses, how may I help you? Would you like a kitchen the size of a golf course or a pond on your bathroom? Desperate not madam, we have the best selection of useless features in the market.’

‘ _Javier_ ,’ she pushes his hand in a scolding grip and glare. ‘These _houses_ have brought you food to the table, the suit you’re wearing now and even the skating lessons that you insist in taking.’

‘I know. I _know_.’ There is a hint of guilt and he balances his silhouette on the balls of his feet, rocking back and forth, hands shoved in his pockets. ‘But I have plans for the future too. And Laura. And you too mom, you have your own dreams.’

‘My dream is for my children to be happy.’ She takes a sip of the fizzy liquid but as soon as it reaches her throat, she is attacked by a bout of cough, the flute almost slipping through her feeble grasp.

Javier holds her by the arms but her face is contorted in pain. ‘Mama? Are you okay?’ She shakes her head as the cough doesn’t subside. He looks around, the musicians gone for their break and no one seems to even spare a glimpse on his direction. His pulse quickens, panic lodging on his mouth as saliva refuses to slide down, when his mother hugs his chest, all strength leaving her lower limbs.

Javier almost cries for help, not caring whether he would interrupt the never-ending oration, when a pair of hands reaches for his mother’s back, preventing her from a free fall to the tiled floor.

‘Out.’

‘What?’ Javier is paralyzed as he watches a young boy shifting her weight to his slender shoulders, propelling her to stand as her consciousness slips.

‘We have to bring her somewhere less crowded. There is a terrace on that side.’ The boy is calm and each sentence is just an affirmation until Javier remains indecisive and glued to the ground, when the soothing tone becomes orders. ‘Now! And bring a chair. Go!’

He navigates through the sea of tailcoats and stilettos, bumping and apologizing for his rough demeanor, retrieving the first unoccupied seat he could find as he sprints through the same open doors as he saw them leave.

The night is cold and he shivers at the strong gust that slaps his face. There is a storm of leaves ahead of the balcony columns, dry petals and broken twigs. His mother sits on the chair, her eyes closed but lips parted, and the same dread fills his stomach, churning his intestines, tying them into sailor knots and lumps. The young boy runs back to the ballroom but materializes as soon as he went in, a bright orange tablecloth on one arm, a glass of dark elixir on the other.

‘What is that?’ Javier recognizes the stranger as the waiter with the pink champagne. Lanky shoulder and even slender waist, he was young, perhaps underaged but lying about the number for an extra paycheck. His hair is darker than the night, just as his eyes, neither big nor small, two marbles perfectly carved from graphite.

‘Don’t worry, it won’t kill her.’ He hands Javier the concoction as he drapes the cloth over her naked shoulders and long enough to cover her torso. ‘What are you doing? This is not a prop for auction. Just feed it to her.’

The older man nods, annoyed by the commanding tone of the waiter but he complies and he brings the rim of the glass to his mother’s lips, she gulping the contents in small, contained sips. There is no magic but her face regains a much healthier complexion and her breathing is stabilized. The young man tears away his uniform bowtie, snapping the tiny buckle hidden by the collar of his white shirt and drops to his knees, in front of her seated frame.

‘May I?’ He takes her left feet and puts it on his lap. Javier’s mother nods and he removes her designer sandal. His hand reaches for her thigh and he pulls down her silk stocking, exposing her leg to the autumn breeze. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’ He shoots Javier a questioning glare.

‘Like what?’

‘Like I am going to do something indecent to your mother.’

‘I never thought you would.’

‘So what are you thinking?’

Javier doesn’t even know what his mind is contemplating. ‘I’m thinking that you’re quite pretty.’

The unexpected pink shade on the boy’s cheek actually makes him chuckle and he amuses in the way he opens his mouth and closes it almost immediately without saying a word.

‘Are you flirting with me?’ He massages the sole of her foot, his knuckles pressing on certain patches of skin and letting them slide over to the phalanges until his fingertips.

‘Is it working?’ Javier crouches next to the waiter, holding his mother hand as the rubbing continues.

‘You’re not the first one tonight.’

‘I bet I won’t be the last one.’

‘Should I take this as a compliment?’

‘There would be no harm in it.’

‘Pretentious.’

The young man bites his lower lip to suppress a smile and Javier notices how the tip of his teeth sinks in the moist, red flesh. He sees a single trail of glistening sweat run down his neck through the unbuttoned collar and he wonders where it will lead if he follows it. The boy smells of vanilla, sweet but also with tones of manhood. It is almost intoxicating.

His mother opens her eyes, a light fogginess still in them.

‘Are you feeling better madam?’

Javier can’t help but notice how the stranger’s Adam’s apple moves just slightly as he talks. He wasn’t lying when he said he was a pretty specimen.

‘Yes.’ She is embarrassed to have caused all the commotion but the boy simply smiles, gingerly tender, as he helps her put on the sandal again, an enactment of Cinderella.

‘May I have your name madam?’

‘Enriqueta. And this is my son, Javier.’

‘Ja-vi-er.’ He almost sings the name out, punctuating each syllable until it rolls smoothly from his tongue. The older man raises his eyebrows, confused and wondering what that epiphany was.

_Is something wrong with my name?_

_Nothing. Ja-vi-er._

‘And yours?’ She stands up, holding to both their hands, but just as the waiter is about to reveal the mystery of his identity, Javier is called by the strict baritone of his father. The senior Fernández doesn’t even spare a glance to his wife as his son disappears back to the multitude of business magnates, empty shells resembling humans.

‘What were you doing out there?’ His father shoves a tumbler of cognac into his hands, the two ice cubes already starting to melt.

‘Mom was feeling sick.’ The brownish, transparent spirit is strong and bitter. Nothing like vanilla.

‘Is she better?’

‘Yes, one of the waiters–‘

‘Then stop playing around. All these people are possible partners for your future endeavors. You could at least create a good impression.’

‘Sure, I will throw myself at their feet and lick them clean.’ Javier raises his glass to his father and takes another sip, too much at once and it irritates and scratches his throat as the alcohol shoots up his nose. The disapproving scowl he receives is delightful but it soon fades into the most forged father-proud-of-his-son smile as couples meet them and congratulate them on their newest projects.

It wasn’t only his father that had prepared a speech, but Javier too had his treatise well folded and imprinted up his sleeves. Perhaps he should have chosen a path on acting, Hollywood or Bollywood it didn’t matter. He spends the night shaking hands and planting kisses on palms, on boasting about his college admission and insinuating his bachelor status. He doesn’t know if it is him talking or the alcohol, his drunken-self enjoying the whole social function more than he would ever imagine.

Javier has no idea whose room he wakes up in at the early hours of the next morning. His head is a sphere of lead and he can feel the contents of the buffet crawling up his esophagus. He runs to the bathroom, stumbling on the way there, as he throws up chunks of food, bile and the extreme sour and acidic stomach juices.

_Great Javi, see whether you can vomit your liver as well._

He sits by the nightstand after washing and rising his mouth countless of times with the lime toothpaste that his gums and tongue are numb. A body shifts in the bed and he almost jumps from the sudden movement. It was naïve of him to think he was alone (he notices the used condom a few meters away) but his throat goes dry when it’s a mop of dark hair that drapes over the pillow.

It couldn’t have been the young waiter, could it?

‘Do you want an aspirin? I have some on my purse.’

A woman’s voice. No, it wasn’t the vanilla boy whose name he didn’t even know. He is not sure if it’s relief or disappointment that punches his gut.

‘Aspirin never works. Do you have a cigarette?’

She hums affirmatively. ‘Get me one too.’

Javier has no intentions to snoop at her things but the purse falls from his hands as he tries to pull out the lighter. A medium-sized wallet, car keys, sunglasses and a compact. A name card also falls from it and he assumes it’s hers. He lights two cigarettes, one for each, and he contemplates putting it out when he takes the first drag. It’s sweet, like wrapped candy, but he keeps burning it.

‘So Javier Fernández, man of the modern times, playboy out of the shelves.’ The woman sits on the cushioned headboard, the cream sheets wrapped around her breast. She was older, definitely older than he was by a large margin. Her hair was black, less lustrous and longer than the young waiter, and her eyes were green with a few wrinkles at the corner.

‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’ He is surprised to see that he has his underwear on, decency still a quality he had even when he was muddled by the many glasses he had had just a few hours ago.

‘Not bad. Just a little too ingenuous.’ Her fingers tiptoe his bicep and he turns to her.

‘Who?’

‘Not me.’ She drops the ashes on the wooden surface of the bed stand, not caring if it would char it. ‘Or you don’t remember what happened?’

‘I don’t.’ The ashtray is on his side. ‘I know what we did, but I don’t remember it.’

‘What a pity. I really did enjoy it.’ Javier spots a wedding band on her hand, a very thin rose gold line. ‘Care to refresh your memory?’

He points at the accessory with his cigarette. ‘Wouldn’t he mind?’

‘Oh, he definitely doesn’t. I think he is glad I’m not mourning him anymore.’

It is apprehension that boils on his face, a sudden pang of guilt and he almost chokes on the excessive drag. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘He was a good man.’ She pats his cheek, pulling the skin as one does to a chubby child. ‘So are you. That’s why you deserve some fun. Just fun. No strings attached.’

‘I don’t know who you are.’ He leaves the bed, picking the pieces of his suit discarded on the floor, the shirt wrinkled and smelling of sweat and spilled rum.

‘Isn’t it better that way? I’m clean.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘So what are your requirements, _Javier_?’ She too leaves the comfort of the mattress and grabs the name card on the carpet. Even without the high heels, she was considerably tall. ‘A little romance? A courtship game?’

Unbuttoned collars and vanilla cologne. Javier doesn’t know why these fill his mind at that precise moment.

‘Call me if you think I’m worth it.’ She hands him the card. ‘Love too can be negotiated.’

Javier does call her for what she brands as a session of fun. In the beginning, it was reticent meetings, hotel rooms and formal introductions, awkward brief messages and silent sex. It soon morphed into more frequent adventures, especially followed by arguments with his father that were distilled to a combination of ‘useless’ and ‘weak’ expletives. These were his escapades, moments of the week where his body released the pent-up energy and the anger. She was experienced, not just her age, but also her ways to please him. She loved his willingness to learn too and every sex theater was the opportunity to hone Javier on the art of intimacy and sensuality – where to kiss, how to use his tongue to trace the most sensitive spots, what sounds to make and to evoke. When he was willing to relinquish control, she would bring him to her home, a penthouse in the outskirts of the city, and she would educate him on breaking boundaries and dethroning stereotypes. Javier gave but he was also penetrated, the first time he was taken also the first time he almost fainted from the apogee of his orgasm. Sometimes it would be orderly and tidy, others a mess of fluids, more his than hers.

But Javier never touched her lips, even when she insisted. Her dark hair was too distracting, he always said.

It was in one of these days on their shared schedule when Javier was driving his motorcycle, a gift from her for his birthday (and another threat from his father), that he spots a young man tapping his foot impatiently on the plastic bench in front of a convenience store, a plastic white bag on his hands. He is wearing a grey hoodie under a denim jacket and his jeans too have a few tears on the knees. It’s very boyish and casual but he is certain that it is the bowtie waiter on that party, and he removes his helmet, the tea-colored visor blocking him of a proper glance. The young man is soon joined by a trio walking past the automatic doors but instead of a greeting, one of them grabs him by the jaw and pulls him towards the flustered face of the thug.

Javier is not eavesdropping (he is) but their voices are loud and he can hear them clearly, even at a distance. One of them is yelling at the dark-haired boy, calling him a ‘little whore’ as the others snigger and hold him by the shoulders. He is ready to call the police when the gentle waiter of his memory propels his head directly below the chin of the one holding him prisoner. He frees himself from the incarcerating clamp as he swings the bag with more strength than Javier thought it was possible from his svelte silhouette, the different cans and bottles an improvised mace. He spits on one of the fallen mobsters, pointing his middle finger with overdone emphasis.

‘Hey!’ Javier wants to call him, but what was his name? ‘Get on! Quickly!’

He is not sure if the boy recognizes him but he jumps to his motorcycle without second thoughts. Javier has never ridden with such speed but he too feels liberated as the stranger opens his arms and yells from the bottom of his lungs.

 

 

Javier splashes his face with water from one of the functional taps that he finds in the docks. It is close to midnight and there are no workers there, only he and the waiter of his memory, who is fondling a stray calico cat on his lap. The smell of fish and gasoline would normally be repugnant but not now as he sits on the concrete pavement. There are a couple of seagulls circling the pier a few meters ahead and the dancing melody of the subdued waves is a lullaby on its own.

‘Rough day?’ Javier tickles the pregnant belly of the cat and she purrs shamelessly for more attention.

‘Rough life.’ The stranger smirks as he lays a kiss on the pink nose of the animal. Her sandpaper lick is way less charming. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

A déjà vu. He hadn’t noticed he had his gaze fixed on the younger man’s exposed neck, not a trail of sweat this time but a beads string. ‘Like what?’

‘Like I don’t recognize you, _Ja-vi-er_.’

His heart skips a beat. Since when was he so lame like the protagonist of a coming of age novel?

‘So you have thought of me all this time.’

‘Every second with every breath I take.’

‘I’m honored.’

‘You should be, rich boy.’

‘Don’t call me that.’ His phone vibrates on his pocket but he ignores the call.

‘What? Is it a lie?’

‘You know nothing about me.’

‘Fair.’ The young waiter swipes away the leftover fur on his lap as the cat hops to the steps leading to the berth. ‘I know nothing about you except that you wear blue suits and ride a motorcycle like someone who has just got their license.’

‘Do you have an opinion for everything?’

‘Only when my mouth is not occupied.’ He stares at the space between his crossed legs and Javier can’t decipher the maze of his eyes. ‘But you don’t need to know about that.’ He roams the plastic bag he got from the convenience store, one of the handles broken, and he pulls out two small cans, condensation drops on the aluminum.

‘Orange juice?’ Javier laughs whole heartedly as he takes a mouthful of the sugary treat. The other man blushes, the same shade of pink he remembered creeping on his cheeks. ‘Kid.’

‘It’s cheaper than beer.’ Some of it spills on his hoodie as he pops open the can. ‘Fuck.’

Javier didn’t know that curses could sound so lyrical. He lights a cigarette, the white stick between his fingers as the feeble flame burns the tobacco on the tip and he extends it to the young man. He makes a grimace, shaking his head.

‘It will bring you lung cancer.’

‘I thought you liked taking risks. Chicken.’

‘I like turkey better.’

Javier chokes on the first drag of smoke, coughing a few times, the thundering echoes of the forced exhalations frightening a few of the seagulls. The dark-haired man lies down, arms bracing his own abdomen as he laughs non-stop, his feet tapping in the same giggling rhythm. Javier finishes the cigarette in silence, the waiter staring at the agglomerate of stars hung high in the sky. He swears he is the most beautiful person he has ever met.

‘How is your mother?’

‘She–,‘ Javier throws the butt to a pile of sand, ‘I just came from the hospital. I don’t think she will go home ever again.’

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’ The hand that covers his is warm. Warmer than any touch he has ever received.

‘She never got to thank you for that day at the party.’ Javier tentatively interlaces their fingers, expecting a rejection. The younger man doesn’t withdraw his hand, the corners of his mouth curved into a sheepish smile.

‘I was fired that day.’

‘Why? You saved her life.’

‘ _Improper etiquette_.’ He mimics the gesture of pulling a neck tie. ‘It’s my fault I guess. I never liked being tied _that_ way.’

Javier just squeezes his fingers tighter. ‘I never got your name.’

‘Who says I want to give it away?’

‘Won’t you give it to me?’

There are a few brief seconds of silence as the younger man draws his knees to his chest. He pulls his hand away. ‘Yuzuru.’

‘That’s a strange name.’

‘No more than Ja-vi-er.’

‘It’s _Javier_.’

Yuzuru sticks his tongue out and he leans his face on his leg. ‘You’re looking at me again like that.’

Javier imitates the same pose as the younger man, his own eyes drawn to the two abysses, dark and deep, stealing all this attention. ‘I like watching you.’

‘Well then,’ Yuzuru rubs the short hairs on his nape and diverts his gaze back to the sky, charting stars together and trying to wield constellations, ‘enjoy it because you don’t have to pay.’ He laughs to himself, not of amusement but self-pity. ‘You will not see me again.’

‘Why?’ It’s an impulse but Javier curls one of the unruly dark strands between his index and thumb as he runs his hand through Yuzuru’s scalp. His fingertips drop to the upper lip, tracing the cupid’s bow and the plumpness imprinted in his mind.

‘Watch, not _touch_.’ The younger man doesn’t back away and the pink tip of his tongue wets the finger. It is almost erotic the rosy blush on his cheeks, the long eyelashes over his mystic eyes and the drop of sweat lapping his Adam’s apple.

‘No exceptions?’

‘Not for you.’

Javier withdraws his hand, reaching for another cigarette on his pocket to hide the growing excitement in him. He can’t even flick the metal wheel of his lighter, only tiny sparkles flying out, followed by a comprehensive list of blasphemous remarks, and Yuzuru quickly snatches it and ignites a flame for him. ‘Going home?’

‘I don’t have a home.’ The younger man plays with the plastic object, watching the liquefied butane swings both sides. ‘But I’m not staying in this butt’s hole any longer.’

‘Where are you going?’

He doesn’t answer, throwing the lighter up and catching it as gravity exerts its command. It slips from his fingers and it lands right between his eyes, on the bridge of his nose. He massages the bruised spot, a mix of embarrassment and childlike innocence reflected on his complexion.

‘Want me to take you somewhere?’ Javier points at his motorcycle. ‘It won’t take you outside of the city but you will manage.’ He doesn’t know where his home is as well but he wishes it was just where they were, here, in the dormant docks, just the two of them, filtered cigarettes and canned orange juice.

‘You want me to _ride_ you, Ja-vi-er?’

The smirk returns to Yuzuru’s face but Javier retaliates in the exact same measure.

‘You already did.’

 

 

It is later than usual and definitely not dinner time when Javier arrives at her penthouse. The security staff in duty already recognize him and they just nod, as greeting or due to the lethargic nature of their work Javier doesn’t care to find out. _Home_ , he musters to himself as the doors of the elevator close and the city landscape is reduced to the white balls of street lampposts and lines of red from the rear lights of cars.

Her house is minimalistic as always, cubist furniture and potted cacti, nothing too personal and revealing of her own and nothing that indicated a particular hobby or collection. There is a framed 4R sized photograph on the living room of her and a white-haired man, both on top of a mountain and holding a small silver trophy. He must be her deceased husband and, for the first time, Javier feels like he is an intruder. He follows the sound of the shower to the bedroom and he sits on the edge of the mattress, the purple sheets wrinkled and half already draped to the floor. He lies down, a vision of dark irises and vintage jeans haunting him. He swears he can almost smell vanilla on his shirt, on his neck, on his lips. As his head hits the pillow, a hard matter presses onto the back of his ear and he turns around.

It is a lighter, a classical zippo with a bull carved in it. A fine piece of craftsmanship laid underneath the cotton case. Javier picks it up and explores the metallic protrusions on his fingertips. He knows the owner of that device.

‘I thought you had forgotten about me.’ She comes out of the steam-filled bathroom, hair loose and wet, simple checkered pajamas pants and a tank top. There is nothing provocative in her gait and she looks tired.

‘Where did you find this?’ Javier raises the zippo as she sits next to him, palm on his upper thigh.

‘How was your evening? A new conquest?’

 _Yuzuru_. He lets the name slip away for now as he focuses on the item in his hands. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘Does it matter?’ She tries to snatch it but he is quicker in dodging her advances. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

Javier flips open the lighter, the large F engraved on the inside of the lid confirming his suspicion. ‘You have been sleeping with my father?’

She walks to the living room for her own cigarettes, the combination of tobacco and sweetener, and she leans on the window frame on the opposite side of the bed.

‘Yes. Father and son. I’m sorry Javier.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Tonight, yesterday, last week. Does it matter at all?’

Javier has no idea why his hands are shaking, if the dryness in his throat is due to pure physiological thirst or to his confusion and the shock. He flicks a flame just to see if it was a true lighter or a nasty joke on his naivete, and he closes the top with a wrist sway that hurts his tendon. He is calm, placid, anger simmers not, but there is a numbness on his feet when he stands up. He doesn’t know what he is feeling.

‘This isn’t about you and I, Javier.’

‘I know. No strings attached.’ His voice is as normal as usual, velvety and smooth, perhaps a little raspy because of the syrupy orange juice earlier.

‘I like you Javier, you and your wild spirit. You are much better than your father, a much better man than he will ever be.’ She takes a long drag, stoic and callous to the inevitable end.

‘Then why?’ He sees the ashes falling from the burning tip to the crystal ashtray as she crushes the stick, only half consumed.

‘Because I can’t take from you what I really want.’

Javier picks the motorcycle keys as he leaves her place. He wishes he had never come. _Home_. Where is home?

 

 

Home is not what Javier would call these white walls as he closes the two large mahogany doors of the Fernández mansion, his racer helmet clad on his elbow. Every division, stairs and ceiling are fast asleep except for a dim light on the office. It was his father in his leather armchair, a half-full bottle of scotch whiskey accompanying him. He is finishing signing a few papers when Javier knocks on the door frame. He sits in front of the elder man who pours him the same drink.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Here and there.’ Javier takes a sip, the two ice cubes cracking as they hit the sides of the tumbler. ‘I was in the hospital with mom.’

‘How is she?’ It looks like contracts, clauses after clauses but the pen doesn’t stop and signatures keep adorning the final lines of each page.

‘Why don’t you go there and see her for a change?’

He finally has the attention of his father, the same stern glare and rigid jaw. He sets his fountain pen aside and leans back, rubbing the bridge of his nose in an irked frown.

‘Tell me Javier, where did I fail as a father?’

‘Excuse me?’

The magnate’s fist hits the desk with a loud thud, almost knocking the bottle of malted alcohol. ‘The late nights, coming home at dawn, going–‘

‘I’m not a child anymore.’ Javier taps his fingers on the helmet on his lap.

‘The stupid motorcycle, the skating lessons, that sum on your bank account–‘

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Are you prostituting yourself Javier?’

‘What?’ He chuckles at the absurdity of the remark. ‘What? No! What is this about?’

‘You have been selling information from the company.’

‘Are you out of your mind?!’

‘Who else Javier? Who else? I can’t believe this.’ The Fernández senior pulls a cigarette from his platinum case. ‘To be betrayed by my own son.’ All the matches he tries to light break under his maddened pressure and a frustrated groan escape his mouth.

Javier storms out of his seat, his forehead hitting the cushioned rim of his own chair. There is irony in the clumsy way his father holds a match and he retrieves the zippo on the pocket of his pants. He throws it across the desk, sending the mountain of papers to the floor, each sheet like a giant snowflake. ‘Is this what you are looking for?’

Silence. For a few seconds, all Javier can hear is the tickling of the clock on the wall. An ominous march awaiting to reap his soul.

‘I see. It’s all clear now.’ The elder man flicks an orange flame, letting the blaze consume all the fuel in the body of that item. ‘You and that bitch want to bring me down.’

‘You slept with her!’ It is not just anger that Javier pours on his words. It’s the years of his childhood that he never had, the hugs that were promised but never delivered, the broken guitar and the buried skates, Yuzuru being fired, and home, home, _home_. ‘It wasn’t in my bed that she got what she wanted. You invited her to your own! You!’ He walks around the room, kicking the ottoman on his path. ‘Do you hate me that much, father?’

The rings of smoke contaminate the air in the room with blame and accusations. The elder man signs one last paper and he shoves the folder to the edge of the desk closest to Javier. It’s a series of documents with the company’s information, gross losses, dates, lawyer’s names. ‘Are you suing me?’

It’s is probably the last time he saw his father’s silhouette, the broad shoulders and high stature, the slightly hunched posture and flat feet.

‘I have no son.’

The lawsuit was resolved quickly, almost as fast as the ones shown on television dramas, court session in the morning and verdict by the end of the episode. Father against son in a rare case of commercial espionage and leak of confidential information. Javier feels nothing, not even relief, when he is proven innocent for lack of evidence and unreliable witnesses. It all sounds like a dream, a never-ending nightmare. His advisor proposes an indemnity but he refuses.

‘I want nothing from him.’

A home is what he asks for. A nest of his own where he could fly but return to in his own terms. A new life, away, far away from the guilt, the shame and the pain. He doesn’t cry when he visits his mother one last time. She hugs him and wishes him a good journey but when her arms release him from the embrace, she stares at him with curious eyes.

‘Who are you?’

He simply smiles as he kisses her firm cheeks. Just a stranger, Javier replies, just a stranger who visits angels before they go back to heaven. Lies become the truth if they are told long enough. He receives a letter, an apology from _her_ , for involving him in her scheme and a bank transfer slip, an immensely large amount transacted to his account. He donates it all, hospitals and orphanages, and he sells the motorcycle, the remaining notes enough for him to buy a train ticket somewhere.

It is in the station while he counts if the coins he has left are enough for a can of coke as he waits for the departure time, passenger only him, that a man in a designer suit and sleek hair approaches him. He can tell he is Italian from his accent and he seems to be particularly interested in his lack of baggage.

‘Adventure or business?’

‘Freedom.’ Javier thanks him for the drink as he crouches to collect the can from the vending machine. ‘Free from this butt’s hole.’

The refined man laughs at that expression asking if that is a trend among the youth nowadays. ‘I’ve picked a stray cat who says exactly the same.’

‘Maybe it is the truth then.’

‘Won’t you come with us?’ A simple offer, undeniably attractive and temptingly dangerous.

‘For you? Or for the cat?’

‘For me. For the cat. For you too. For pleasure.’

Javier follows the stranger outside of the station to the car park. The young man sitting at the hood of the red Chevrolet is playing on a black and white Gameboy and he puts the large console back to his messenger bag when he sees them. He might have vanilla blond hair but Javier recognizes the obsidians of his eyes.

‘Did you go for a hunt again, Massimo?’

The Italian lifts Yuzuru to his arms, the younger man’s legs wrapped on each side of his hips, and he does a double twirl in the air before putting him down on the concrete ground.

‘I thought it would more fun if we had another member. This is–’

‘Ja-vi-er.’

‘Do you know each other?’

‘No.’ Javier extends his hand for a greeting and Yuzuru takes it. ‘But we might have seen each other around.’

It is a long trip on deserted countryside roads accompanied by a selection of Italian pop songs with a few words that Javier can actually understand. They don’t talk much, an occasional survey on favorite desserts or a debate on whether milk should be poured into coffee. Yuzuru is quieter than he expected, his profile well defined and chiseled, his hair blown by the wind of his open window.

_Don’t look at me like that._

_Like what?_

_Like you want to kiss me._

_What would be the harm in that?_

‘Nothing.’ Yuzuru turns to him, mouth slightly parted, the tip of his pink tongue visible. Javier presses his thumb on the dry lower lip from the strong breeze, coating it with saliva until it is moist and fuller. He licks it tentatively, both their gazes fixed on each other.

‘Soft lips.’


End file.
